


too bad about my brain ’cause I’d like to make friends

by Violsva



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Gen, Loss, Memories, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Ideation, fluffier than it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: It’s the worst place for a panic attack.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Clint Barton
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	too bad about my brain ’cause I’d like to make friends

It’s the worst place for a panic attack. Right in the main kitchen, where anyone could walk in. It’s not even night yet; someone’s going to come in any second now and—come in, boots echoing on concrete floors, and tell him— _Вставай. Вставай, ты блядь_ —No. Tiles on the floor, LED lights, counters. Here. New York. Now. Get up and do this shit back in the suite.

He doesn’t move.

He’s backed into a corner between two cabinets. If he lifted an arm he could grab the counter and pull himself up. He places the metal hand on the counter edge, and there’s a sound in the hall, and he cringes back again, hand dropping.

Tall, male, muscular, trained fighter— _Barton_ , he knows everyone likely to use this kitchen. Just Barton.

Barton blinks at him, then goes to the sink and pours a glass of water. No, two. He casually places one next to Bucky—how he manages to do that casually when Bucky’s on the damn floor, Bucky doesn’t know—then goes to the fridge. Bucky stares at the glass. He and Steve mostly just have plastic tumblers, now. It’s easier, when Bucky inevitably drops one or cracks it in his left hand or throws it across the room.

“Pizza?” Barton asks. Bucky looks over and sees him holding a box and raising his eyebrows. Bucky manages to shake his head. “More for me then. You mind if I eat in here?”

Bucky shrugs, and, instead of sitting at the kitchen island as Bucky was expecting, Barton collapses to sit on the floor. Not quite next to Bucky, but not too far away. He puts the pizza box in front of himself—and between them—and digs in.

The smell of grease and cold tomato sauce is grounding. It reminds him of … Joe Martelli, three blocks over. His mother had a thing about feeding Steve up. The memories chase away the nausea, making him realize it was hiding hunger. She baked her own bread, always, and cooked amazing pasta, and the whole floor they lived on smelled wonderful. Bucky went over with Steve whenever he could, and lied to his mother about it because she objected to him hanging around the Italian neighbourhood.

“Sure you don’t want any?” Barton asks. Bucky blinks back to the present.

There’s one slice of pizza left. Bucky reaches out and takes it. He can’t help glancing at Barton, but Barton’s smiling.

The nausea stays gone, for once, and when he drinks the water helps his headache almost immediately. He didn’t even realize he had a headache until it left. When he’s done, Barton asks, calm and nonjudgmental, “Anything else you need?”

“A bullet to the head.” Shit, fuck, he hadn’t meant to say that. He can get away with it with Steve, Steve will look sad but he won’t actually _do_ anything, but Barton—

Barton says, “Sorry, I hate guns.” Bucky blinks. “They’re boring.”

“Boring?”

“Everyone uses them. Store-bought ammunition, limited customization, no strength required—boring. They only do one thing.”

“ _You_ only do one thing,” Bucky says, as if they’re twelve, and Barton laughs.

“I can juggle too.” Bucky can’t pull his thoughts together to come up with an answer for that. “But the only gun show I’m giving you is this one,” Barton says, flexing his biceps, and it’s so unexpected that Bucky actually laughs out loud.

Barton grins. “Hand up?” he offers, standing and reaching out. Bucky takes his hand with his right and stands, bracing against the counter with his left when he’s up. Nothing stopping him from going back to the suite now—though “I can’t get up off the floor” was a piss-poor excuse.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem. Come up and watch a movie sometime, I’m usually here. Or just knock on my door.”

“Maybe. Yeah. Thanks.” Bucky feels odd—flustered—and leaves before it can turn into another panic attack, but it doesn’t. By the time the elevator stops he just feels warm. That kind of reminds him of before the war too, back when he could just have a normal conversation, when he’d had friends, girlfriends. Or, maybe, during the war, when his head wasn’t quite on straight but he’d still—still been … human.

Before the war he would have been able to make jokes, carry the conversation, like Clint had. He remembers reaching out to give a hand up himself—usually to Steve. And he’s lost that—he’s definitely lost that, if _that_ was all he could do in the way of conversation these days. _A bullet to the head._ Fuck, how did he get comfortable enough with Barton to say that?

But it was nice to be around someone else who could do it. _Would_ do it, reach out and create that kind of comfort. Even if Bucky couldn’t anymore.


End file.
